


soundless ash, shoreless moon

by monomania



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 03:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14370306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monomania/pseuds/monomania
Summary: “What do they call you?” he asks, and watches the man’s expression wither almost instantly.(He knows very well what they call him, for the hunter himself came about using the same handles for far too long—the Beast, the Monster. And now, finally graced by the sights of the infamous captor, Viktor couldn’t find those names to be more ill-fitting.)“Nevermind what they call me.”In which Yuuri comes to be known as the Devil himself, and Viktor is ordered to come back home with his head on a silver plate.





	soundless ash, shoreless moon

**Author's Note:**

> this was born from the wish to write a fairytale-like little something, and then it kind of spiraled out of control. tags will be updated as we go!
> 
> this fic wasn’t beta’d, english is not my first language, yadda yadda yadda.  
> without further ado, i hope you enjoy! (◕ᴗ◕✿)

Rumor has it families are no longer safe; the sacred walls of their homes became unable to keep the Devil away, and now children disappear more quickly than villagers can plan ways around such a curse. And what a powerful curse it must be! The Monster knows no bounds; it does not cower upon titles, money, or honor. It simply takes and takes and takes. Mothers and sisters cry into the night, fathers are overtaken by shameful defeat and brothers feel overwhelmed by powerlessness.

Rumor has it it’s a man. Hair dark as the treacherous night and skin pale as freshly fallen snow, with ebony eyes that shimmer in bursts of gold and a voice that bestows envy to a siren’s lullaby. A demon. The one who lures sons and daughters away and devours their souls under the grave moonlight. Something to be feared, almost like a bedtime story often told so no-one would stray from the good, righteous path.

A reckless hunter, however, would find that the abductor was more than all the descriptions meant to haunt the sleep of villagers and the inventions told between morning breadcrumbs—a man of sparse words and more private than what would be considered courteous or polite, but with a kindness so great it made the world seem small in comparison.

A rescuer, a savior.

(“Doesn’t that make it sound like a fairytale?” Phichit quips behind his grin, gulping down the remains of his Assam tea after a generous forkful of butterscotch pie.)

But as of now, the giantlike shadows remain, and the unwavering unknown blooms further into a garden of tangible terror. Commercial trades among nearby villages became a rarity and most inns scattered about the Moonstone Forest decided to end business for good, either due the lack of wandering customers or the fear of becoming targets themselves. One too many children had been taken already, and as the countless searches became all for naught, the last kidnapping turned itself into old news—by then a boy of only four summers, now missing for a little over a year.

Far too long to hold onto hope.

The village’s spirit has long started to fade out, dread cheating its way into people’s hearts and blackening them into hideous, burnt-out fragments of charcoal—and to further dismay, it’s on a winter morning when the Monster comes again, quick and sudden, robbing a family of the youngest victim yet.

Little Yuri is only three, and he might as well be lost forever, for the edges of the shire that once served him a home bled into the dullest of woods.

The common path to go across the assembly of villages far North has always been through the Forest, much too full of tall, curvaceous trees, and blanketed by thick layers of snow more often than not—the Moonstone is astoundingly taken by the monochromatic atmosphere of white and gray during three out of four seasons, and as the veils of ice hide lonesome architectures like phantoms during daylight, the carcasses of trees dried out in dark and ominous shades of brown and green blend into the nighttime sky startlingly well. The ghostly atmosphere drives most people away, and the ones that venture through it regardless of the imminent dangers are either too foolish or too ignorant. Even with the trip around it taking nearly eight days on horseback—fourteen days on foot—simply glossing over the alternative is enough to grant travelers an outrageous repute that drives others miles away.

Viktor Nikiforov is one of those people.

A one-of-a-kind hunter, known around as someone raised about the wilderness by famished wolves and a keen desire for survival. Now built like a seasoned warrior, the prices imposed on his services are startlingly high—yet well-deserved, for most of his doings remain unheard of coming from anywhere else, the bravery and quickness that serve him as gadgets only stacking his reputation higher and higher. So it’s only understandable he’s the one to be called on the biggest of problems, requested by an old and distant member of the Plisetsky family; Lord Nikolai of Tolstoi offered him a large compensation for his troubles, thus the hunter finds himself at literal crossroads, nearly lost amongst the Moonstone’s wilderness if not for the North Star peeking through the ice-cold fog.

It’s his third day on the road, searching for clues around the frozen riverside whilst shuffling for information with those who dare to remain rooted deep in the Forest. Rumors do not make concrete trails, but his mare is exceedingly tired, supplies are soon to run low, and hearsays are the best he has.

Fishing a sugar cube out of his pocket, Viktor makes Makkachin an offer of his appreciation; she was the only one to ever provide him with some inner comfort and peace of mind, of spirit, even at times like these—and not for the first time he finds himself to be saved last-minute by her loyal brilliance and unwavering strength. She huffs happily against him, and Viktor caresses the short hairs of her crest. Fortunately having rented a nearby cottage beforehand—in order to not die out in the cold becoming of the winter’s peak—he decides to turn tail before it turns too dark to find the way back.

Viktor makes quick business of his mare’s food and the fireplace at the center of the bungalow, and once Makkachin is fed and the cottage doesn’t feel as cold as the grave, he places his belongings atop the dining table; he also sets aside the meat from his last hunt, as well as the bread and cheese he’d purchased earlier in the day. Once settled down to make his own meal, Viktor leaves for the kitchen, and nearly drops all acquired items once he realises he’s not alone. Spark ignites and fills at his veins and lungs with benumbed turmoil in a matter of seconds, adrenaline melting the ice around his bones faster than he can draw breath.

It’s a man, decidedly a few inches shorter than himself, clad in a thick and night-colored fur coat. His acknowledgement of the hunter’s presence seems almost an afterthought, eyes gleaming in liquid gold as the sharp angles of his face are graced by the faint, dual hue of the fire versus the moonlight. Viktor’s free hand immediately finds the dagger attached to his belt, and cursing himself to not have noticed the man’s aura earlier, he makes a silent promise to not let his eyes leave him ever again.

If his suspicion regarding the stranger’s identity is at all correct, he’ll be twenty-eight coins richer by the third sunrise.

“Word goes around that you’ve been looking for me, Mr. Nikiforov.”

_‘And we have a winner.’_

He’s about to make a move, to draw the blade out of its sheath and strike a single, fatal blow—“preferably dead” was what had been asked of him, and Viktor isn’t one to ask too many questions, much less make small talk with someone who might as well be cattle. It’s not every day his pretty prize walks straight into his arms so willingly, either; but there’s a sudden shift in the air, and the flames underneath the man’s eyes seem to extinguish in a flash as he averts his gaze, visibly flustered.

“…Terribly sorry. Dinner?”

Viktor blinks—once, twice, in utter disbelief. Refuses to utter a word.

“You—You were about to make yourself a meal, I mean. My timing was largely poor, as I’m sure you’re much too tired, and—”

“What the hell.”

The man—the perpetrator, kidnapper, soul-sucking monster for all he knows—just apologized for interrupting his dinner.

(What the hell, indeed.)

Deep-brown eyes stare skittishly back at him, vaguely intrigued as he purses his lips in what seems to be profound wonder and scrutiny. The silence between them stretches away as Viktor finds himself to be in a similar position; bemused, but not letting his guard down, he allows himself a moment of consideration.

The pull he feels to this man feels otherworldly, yes—befitting of witchcraft, almost, which would explain a lot; Viktor observes him like he would his prey, studious and full of caution, yet he catches himself appreciating the glow of his eyes and the contrast of his colors—a quite fair skin, making way to an ink-colored hair carefully brushed away from a fairly handsome face. Despite the sudden and misplaced awkwardness, his body moves with an unchanging grace, all too captivating, and Viktor has the urge to reach out. To make sure he’s real.

“So you know of me?” Viktor asks, pointedly refusing to let himself be caught in his fire.

“Very few do not know of you,” the man offers in a whisper as he shuffles about the dim kitchen, allowing the shadows to change beautifully around him.

The hand secured around the silver dagger twitches. As the man turns questioningly at his silence, Viktor has to fight some of the wondrous, golden-glinted spell that threatens to bewitch him, offering only a wary expression in return.

“Likewise.”

The stranger doesn't answer him, but pressed idle against the wooden counter, Viktor finds, he looks just like a painting. Unreachable and warm.

“What do they call you?” he asks, and watches the man’s expression wither almost instantly.

(He knows very well what they call him, for the hunter himself came about using the same handles for far too long—the Beast, the Monster. And now, finally graced by the sights of the infamous captor, Viktor couldn’t find those names to be more ill-fitting.)

“Nevermind what they call me.”

As his voice fades into nothingness, the hunter can only nod, and the fact he’s careless enough to look away for a split second makes it so the nameless stranger advances towards him in large strides, quick and sudden. Muscle memory has Viktor pulling the dagger on him almost as fast, but the blade is somehow magically worked out of his fingers. When he finally returns to full awareness, Viktor is startlingly empty-handed as his company bears all his possessions, sporting a strained demeanor.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” he prompts, and as a chair moves quite literally by itself from under the small, round table at the corner of the kitchen, Viktor nearly jumps out of his skin.

The man bites his lip, grimaces at himself and gives his back to him, ignoring the way Viktor’s eyes go wide as saucers and how he backs away until he hits the brick wall behind him. The top cupboard opens, also by itself, and a few items float about the air until they come to rest atop the table at his side; the stranger blithely crouches beside the stone sink to grab the biggest frying pan from a distinct pile of other kitchen utensils; a drawer opens at the other side of the room, unprompted, and two moderately-sized knives place themselves beside the meat at the counter. Viktor wants to scream.

“ _What_ ,” is all that comes out instead.

For about fifteen minutes, he remains frozen and speechless, likely in sheer horror. The man uses a knife to slice the meat as the spare blade makes itself useful by working on the cheese and the bread on its own; a thin layer of fat that had been set aside from the start throws itself into the frying pan as the fire springs from nothingness at the stove, and suddenly the savory smell of fresh food have Viktor salivating against his better judgement.

Soon enough the table’s been set with a plate of sliced, medium-cooked meat, as well as slightly crusty, buttered bread encrusted with melted cheese. Viktor can also smell nutmeg, basil and rosemary, although he’s pretty sure he didn’t have any of those things anywhere; he reckons his apparently mystical company had it on him somewhere, for reasons unknown, and Viktor likely blacked out during that portion of the process.

Which is a very reckless thing to do, all things considered.

“I must’ve hit my head. Or maybe ate something bad? Hallucinations can be tricky, I heard,” he tells himself in near laughter, startled, still half-driven to the floor.

“Not at all,” the man says, frowning. “At least not today. I would've seen it, since I—”

He grows reticent as the implication of his words sit with them for a couple of seconds. Then, he flushes a very deep, very pretty shade of pink.

Viktor whistles.

“Please pretend I didn’t say that.”

“Tell me, did you see when I—”

“Actually, let’s never talk about this ever again,” he provides, covering the side of his face with a hand as to obscure Viktor’s view of him. “Makkachin, was it? I’ll make sure she feels comfortable. Why don’t you, um, eat? I’ll, ah—I’ll be right over there!”

 _What a mesmerizing, wholly confusing hallucination,_ Viktor thinks.

(The food tastes fantastic; an appropriate meal for such a beautiful illusion.)

He makes sure to eat to the very last crumb of bread and clear out the dishes before getting hold of an actual weapon and search around every nook and cranny of the bungalow; he may be a heartless hunter, and _occasionally_ a hitman, but he emphatically refuses to play the part of some mannerless, ungrateful bastard.

Viktor is very surprised, however, to find the man exactly where he said he’d be—by his mare’s side, feeding her carrots and berries as she huddles against him and his large coat in unmasked bliss. Viktor takes a moment to breathe in, then out, and only then finally lets himself believe this isn’t a damned hallucination. Fastening the grip around his sword, he approaches them both as quietly and as cautiously as he possibly can, making sure to keep his movements smooth as to not startle Makkachin.

Not even two soundless steps into the stables, however, and the man turns at him, expectant. He seems on verge of saying something, but as he takes in Viktor’s strained posture as well as the long blade about his hands, his elation fades instantly, morphing into something impossibly guarded—on borderline _betrayal_ , actually, as if his motives hadn’t quite literally been exchanging his very head for some expensive currency all along.

“I thought we had been over this?”

In agreement, Makkachin huffs, glaring at her keeper judgmentally.

“It’s nothing personal,” he offers, blinking away the hurt that reverberates through him upon seeing this oddly charming stranger so upset. It’s a weird and fleeting sort of emotion, and Viktor makes sure to not let it get underneath his skin—not only is this a job, but this man has also allegedly killed an unknown number of brutally innocent people. “Just payback for what you did with all those children, really.”

For some reason, the comment seems to tick him off.

“You mean taking them off of their abusers’ hands?”

There’s a strong, revolted edge to his voice; but it is the meaning behind his words that get Viktor off-guard the most. He pushes away the instinctive laughter threatening to burst out of him upon hearing such an absurd claim, but something about the man’s hardened gaze—the way the golden of his eyes seem to burst into a raging fire once again—have him doing a mental double-take.

“I beg your pardon?”

And then, he looks like someone gave him a thorough slap across the face, shock seeping through the cracks of his countenance. In a moment, he seems more startled and full of disbelief than Viktor has ever seen him.

“Don’t tell me you—came after me, without knowing.”

“You’re a kidnapper,” Viktor echoes his own thoughts, almost absent-mindedly.

“In a way,” he retorts. “But I have never sought anyone who did not wish to be taken. I would never—”

“And a child of only three winters knows enough of the world to wish to leave their parents? How could you possibly…”

His voice loses momentum and trails off, uncertain.

As someone who had been abandoned in the woods at a very young age, Viktor knows of parental neglect better than most; and the lack of any meaningful relationship until the better part of his teenage years made him unable to feel the need for children of his own.

However, he understands the reasoning behind it—knows how people deemed so sincere and wholesome can become a menace on their own. Most couples will produce heirs not only for the compulsive need to create a homely atmosphere to their abode, but also due the prospects of multiple, free-of-charge helping hands coming around in a couple of years; thus most children suffer from the greed and ignorance of their guardians before even being born, and it’s such a cruel notion that it has Viktor repelling even the mere thought of marriage as soon as it comes up.

But he can’t bodily go through every house across the world and have a colorful exchange of words with all lovebirds who have heirs under their wings, so besides being particularly enraged at the logistics of it, there’s very little Viktor could possibly do.

 _Unless_.

Like a puzzle that clicks together after some careful consideration, a new light is shed between them, making the shadows projected across the stranger’s face seem softer, gentler.

“How?” Viktor inquires, putting his sword down with an ungraceful flop. He feels like a petty child who’s just been denied their weekly share of raspberries after dinner; it wasn’t supposed to go like this!

“I thought there would be little to be doubted, after dinner,” he offers, almost quietly.

That shushes the hunter, who suppresses a shudder and busies himself with battling away the fresh memories of flying plates and spellbound meals. “You make a compelling argument.”

His heart feels divided as never before—could he trust a stranger, a mage, who refused to offer his name and pulls softly at Viktor’s heartstrings as he caresses lovingly his mare’s face and crest? Who is he to distrust a father’s word, a mother’s plea?

(And yet, who’s to say this man hasn’t already been the saving grace of one too many children?)

“Where are they?” he asks instead.

The stranger quirks a inquisitive eyebrow at him and makes no move to mask the pride in his voice as he says, “At home.”

Viktor hums, the discomfort about his heart mildly appeased.

(At _home_.)

By his count, thirteen children had been taken so far—some much older than others, and it has Viktor wondering how they’re going concerning convivial. He’s almost ashamed to admit he’s already been convinced by the man’s strong-willed version of the story, but as he begins to scheme the biggest of lies to best fool Lord Nikolai of Tolstoi, Viktor can’t bring himself to shake off the need to see the children in the flesh. He isn’t positive as reason why, although common worry and a vague sliver of interest might have something to do with it.

As he crouches down beside Makkachin and the stranger, wholly unguarded, he searches for the flecks of gold in the man’s eyes.

“I would like to see them.”

(Viktor has no reason to, but as someone who's been successfully following gut-feelings for decades, he'll be damned if he just lets this go.)

It sounds more like a request than a demand, voice mellow, but it seems to be the right way to go about things, as the dual spots of flame flicker in mild delight.

“May we take a detour on our way?” the man inquires, and not for the first time, Viktor finds not knowing his name to be the most heinous crime of all.

They arrive at their destination after only a mere half an hour of walking. Strangely, their detour happens to be one of Heinhardt’s biggest markets; as the capital of the far West and also the biggest city yet to be made a target for the notorious abductions, Viktor expected his company to be recognized instantly. But it couldn’t be farthest from the truth, as he goes about the food stalls and other small businesses uninhibited. Even his clothing, that should stand out like a sore thumb in the midst of commonfolk, do not seem to instigate any sort of alarm.

He stops by a speciality shop filled with carved toys, jewelry made with colorful pebbles and other handcrafted objects. Upon seeing them both, the elderly woman behind the makeshift counter gasps, ecstatic—and when she actually steps away from the front to make way to them, Viktor starts feeling tired of being left in the dark. She comes to his company with a spring to her step, and gives the man a friendly tap on the shoulder.

“Long time no see, Mr. Katsuki!” she calls, smiling with all the few teeth she has. “You’ll be delighted to know that Potya is ready! How I missed your requests, truly; they’re always so full of life. Please don't take so long to come again!”

( _'M. Katsuki, huh?’_ )

The man promises that he will return, soon, as Christmas and other holidays are fast to approach. He fishes a small coin purse from one of his pockets and gives the woman four pieces for her services; she disappears into the stall for a couple of minutes before emerging back out, offering the man a small satchel with something he doesn’t even bother checking on. Their trust is apparent, which suggests they’ve been doing these trades for a while.

After many words of thanks and warm goodbyes, he finally makes Viktor the single object of his attention once again, tilting his head.

“Anything you want?”

(For some reason, Viktor thinks of the small hut he can barely call home, hidden deep within the woods back at Orlov Valley; he remembers of forgotten fairytale books, empty trunks that smelled like metal and a fidgeting chasm that insisted on keeping him up at night.)

When he parrots the inquiry back, however, the man looks at him in astonishment.

Viktor cracks a smile despite himself.

“I was thinking of preparing you a meal," he explains almost sheepishly. “Maybe something sweet? Since dinner was on you and… whatever that thing was.”

The stranger blinks, caught, seemingly wholly unbothered by Viktor’s apprehension regarding the earlier display of his abilities.

“What did you had in mind?”

“ _Ah_ , perhaps Syrniki?”

Viktor doubts he knows what it is, but the way his expression lights up even further is all the answer he needs. Starting to make a mental list of the ingredients, he lets his gaze wander about the market; but to his surprise, a soft hand comes to wrap itself around his upper arm, warm and comforting.

“I have everything you’ll need back at home,” the man reassures.

The hunter frowns, “Are you certain?”

His company nods, and Viktor decides to trust his words. Shrugging his shoulders, he extends a hand, offering to carry whatever had been bought earlier. A faint blush spreads high on the stranger’s cheekbones, and Viktor doesn’t even bother to bite back a satisfied grin. “Ready to go?”

When the man meets his gaze again, returning to his usual composure at breakneck speed, the hand on Viktor’s arm slowly travels further down until a bare thumb finds the pulse underneath the leather of his glove. He’s a bit embarrassed to acknowledge the fact his heart skitters upon feeling the warmth of his skin, and Viktor blames his weakness of mind and the caliber of his reactions to the lack of any recent intimacy, regardless of its level—much less with a man as mystifying as the one now nearly pressed against him, eyes shimmering tantalizingly in the moonlight.

“We’re here.”

Viktor takes only a beat before whipping his head to look around him, startled, letting his eyes go wide as he finds them both in an entirely different location. Makkachin surges behind the pair, then, whipping the dock of her tail in contentment. The hunter sends an accusatory glance back to the man beside him, but his company doesn’t look fazed in the slightest.

Without a single word, and refusing to let go of Viktor’s wrist, he begins walking far East with meaningful steps. It doesn’t take long before a full-blown mansion comes into view from behind an assemblage of large trees Viktor can’t recognize—peppered with baby-pink flowers, blooming beautifully amongst the absolute white of the frosted bedspread of snow scattered just about everywhere. Blossoms stack onto colorful blankets at the ground, and the candlelight coming from the chateau’s windows enamel a magnificent sight.

For what seems to be a small eternity, Viktor feels the air being knocked out of his lungs, something clutching incessantly at his heart in a vice grip.

He doesn’t know why the singular view works such exhausting emotions out of him, the overwhelming sensation burning his very core from inside out, but Viktor reckons it must have something to do with _him_ —unassuming, endearing, _mesmerizing_ Mr. Katsuki, who’d been fatally labeled with such a long and bleak list of terms that, upon even closer inspection, couldn’t be farthest from his true self.

Viktor swallows down the flecks of emotions long dormant at his heartland, doing his best to blur the vision of a pair of ebony eyes set ablaze in pride and reverence.

“This place doesn’t seem exactly hard to miss,” Viktor prompts, hoping to not sound as affected as he feels. “How has nobody ever found you?”

“I put a spell on the skirts of the estate. People can’t see it from the outside, unless they are with me.”

“Mn,” is all he offers, absent.

(It explains a lot of things—how so many people had been running around like headless idiots for months; how Katsuki is able to feel even remotely safe at the edge of so many villages; and how on _Earth_ he allows himself to live at such an astounding abode, all things considered.

Viktor is rarely ever impressed, much less surprised, but this man has done it one or two too many times in an insignificant handful of hours, which is startlingly more than any other has ever been able to during pretty much their whole lives. It's largely captivating and somewhat alarming, but it renders the hunter to the astounding position of not knowing what to do with himself—with his hands, his eyes, his _heart_. He wishes he’d know how to act; maybe it would make this likely budding inclination a lot easier to handle, then.)

“It looks beautiful,” Viktor mutters, sounding slightly breathless.

He's delighted to see the telltale blush burning softly across the man’s face; if that’s what awaits him, he'll deliver as many compliments as his brutal frankness may find. Mr. Katsuki thanks him with averted eyes and a quiet voice, still not letting go of his wrist.

“Y-Yuuri,” he says, breaking Viktor from his heavenly daze. When the hunter blinks down at him, speechless, he elaborates, “My name… I’m certain that you must have many questions, so I—decided to start with this.”

His mouth feels dry all of sudden, and the urge to touch him sparks poignantly within him once again.

“Yuuri,” he says, and tells, and echoes, now to the man himself, and it _fits_.

Viktor feels himself falling.

It had never happened quite like this, much less this fast, this viscerally.

 _‘Why did it have to be you,’_ he muses, aching.

(Maybe a spell? A trick?)

Yuuri gazes up at him from under his night-stained eyelashes, snowflakes catching onto the eternal darkness of his hair—and against his better judgement, Viktor feels unquestionably besotted. Closer to losing the reins on his emotions as he’s ever been, the hunter worries his bottom lip, and for all intents and purposes, finds to not mind this particular defeat at all.

(And then, just this once, he allows himself to let go.)

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is loved! (◕▿◕✿)  
> you can also find me at https://odinbytiye.tumblr.com/


End file.
